#tw: disassociation

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter Two: Cruel New World

Heiress of Gotham

Bruce Wayne x Daughter!Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: It's your first-day living life in Wayne Manor. A new house, a new school, and of course there's the new siblings thing too.

Warnings: Negativity, Damian's Jealous, Talks of Death, Numbness, Depression, Disassociation, Misandry, Crying, Suicidal Thoughts (if u squint), Existentialism, Cursing, Yelling, Outbursts, Anti-Police Rhetoric, Injury, Blood, Catcalling

Mentions of: Suicide, Body Fluids (mucus),

Words: 6.7k

A/N: POV kind of switches in some points, but I think it's fine. You know when it's the reader and when it's more of a third-person pov.

"Please take a seat, Miss Wayne," Alfred suggests as he pulls out a chair directly center of the long black cherry wood table. Your father sits at the opposite end of the room at the head of the table to your right, while a smaller black-haired child sits with his back to the kitchen doors on the left. There's one other person who sits directly across the table from where Alfred stands behind the chair meant for you.

"Are you serious? We really have to do this today of all days?" The child whines.

"I thought I told you no technology at the table this morning, Tim," Your father tells the person you're meant to sit across from. Ipad propped up on the table beside his plate, the teenage boy's grayish-blue eyes remain on the screen for a few moments as he shovels forkfuls of eggs into his mouth. In a tacit conversation, they make eye contact for a moment before he flips the cover back over the device and shoves it into the backpack by his feet. "Thank you.”

"You know, Bruce, I really need to get this essay done by this afternoon.” Tim—as you now know—explains.

"Oh? And what's it on?" Always wanting to get more involved in the kids' lives, Bruce attempts some sort of civil conversation other than indulging the begrudging eye-roll Damian throws him from across the table.

"It's on-" Tim begins to explain.

"You're really making us eat breakfast all together at-" Damian interjects.

"-the table like the nice, loving family we are? Pssh, you're lucky everyone's actually here this morning!" Dick cuts Damian off in an attempt to dissuade the boy's frustrations and some of his, perhaps just, points. Walking over to his chair he pulls it out enough to plop down.

"Everyone's coming?! Just for her?!" Damian, as you now know, complains, pointing his cereal’s spoon in your direction.

"I'm afraid Stephanie has a doctor’s appointment, and Jason is... well," Bruce doesn't finish his explanation as he glances around the table.

"Jason," Dick defends, even if he's still somewhat suspicious of the man's current motives. "You'll meet them later, I'm sure," he tosses toward you as he sits at his chair between Tim and Damian still tying his tie.

"Why are you even here? Don't you have work? It's a Tuesday!" Damian chastizes Dick.

"Well if you must know, I have a few suspects I need to bring in for interviews today. They're extraditing a few people since the uptick last week."

"But I thought that-" A look from Dick makes Damian's thoughts linger in the air for a moment as he cuts himself off. Right. Next subject.

"I'm a detective over in Bludhaven," he explains to you, "Luckily I don't live here anymore, so... hopefully that lessens the overwhelming sense of a constant presence of people," he jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood.

With a nod, you finally reach for your fork. It’d been bad enough that it seems more and more people are continuing to engage you when really, it’s been hell enough to process all the transitions currently taking place in your life. While it’s nice in some sense that you’d have breakfast with your Mom on school days like this, having someone cook for you, let alone push in your chair is… well… strange.

“Hello? He’s talking to you,” the sassy child spits at you, garnering your attention. Eyes flitting from him to the person sitting across from you beside Tim, you offer what you can in an attempted smile. It comes across more as a grimace than anything. The Detective politely calls your name, finally tightening his tie as he finishes dressing.

“It’s okay, I get it. This is all a lot. I asked if you ate breakfast with your—“ he spares a quick glance at your Father before it settles back on you, “—Mom, often before everything?”

Though he smiles and has a jovial and pleasant attitude, you can���t bring yourself to really return the favor. While he’s extending an olive branch of friendship, one you’d usually take up, you’re unable to. “Yeah. Nothing like this though,” you mutter, voice surprising even you with the uncharacteristically quiet quality to it.

While the rest of breakfast is filled with questions and trivial conversation, you feel off, with a weary sense of the world. It’s almost like everything is a dream. Once you’ve finished your food, your eyes raise to take in the vase of flowers and candles on either side of it in their ornate silver holders sitting in the middle of the table. “Can I be excused?” Suddenly turned toward your Father, you await his hesitant permission before getting up and heading back to the room they’ve deemed yours just last night.

“She didn’t even look up at me when she answered any of my questions. That’s not good,” Dick points out. There's a hint of concern in his voice as he eyes Bruce.

“She’s probably still grieving her Mom. It only happened yesterday,” Tim proposes with a shrug as he looks up at Dick, who sits to his left.

“Shit,” Dick whispers.

“Do we even know how it happened?” Damian asks from the end of the table, hands clasped in front of himself like a miniature businessman.

“Damian,” Tim whispers with hostility, eyeing him for the inappropriate nature of his comment. Though he’s also curious, as it seems Dick is too, as they all look toward Bruce.

“What? I mean, her Mom dies and suddenly she’s a Wayne? No way,” Damian speaks with confidence.

With a clearing of his throat, Bruce stands. “It’s true. I… hadn’t-” he begins, though hesitates as this wasn’t really a conversation he’d wanted to have with his teenage son of all people. “It wasn’t planned. It was a one-time thing back when I was a little more reckless with keeping up my image.”

“So during your Party Bruce years? Oh my god,” Dick quietly laughs with incredulity. He’d known about it, sure, that ‘phase’ of his Father… yet he hadn’t anticipated him to be that reckless. The look of guilt upon Bruce’s face is all it takes for them to know it’s true.

“I did the math, I looked into her mother’s history, and… it all adds up. I wouldn’t have taken custody of her yesterday if I wasn’t certain.”

“So she was an accident? Ha!” Damian laughs as if he wasn’t technically an accident on his Father’s behalf as well.

“Hey! I will not hear any jokes or have any information imparted on her without my knowledge. It wasn’t her fault, and I won’t see anything but acceptance and welcoming from you three. Will I?” His stern voice sends chills down their spines to some degree. While Bruce doesn’t often take up a fatherly role in terms other than the awful jokes and rare wistful advice, this is a side none of them have ever gotten quite used to.

“Fine. But I’m not changing my entire life around for her. Jon is still coming over after school,��� Damian announces with a click of his tongue and a cross of his arms over his chest.

“Good. Now I know this absolutely will not leave the room but I looked into her cause of death last night and it was a car crash.” With that, Bruce leaves the table.

“Sometimes things are just life, I guess,” Dick thinks aloud, still processing the information.

How cool is it that this room has a window seat? You think to yourself, still baffled by the enormous room you’d been gifted. Absolutely awesome! Unfortunately, that’s not something you can fully appreciate as everything has already started to feel numb. They’d explained at the hospital that it’d been a car crash. You know the number of stitches they’d placed, the degree of burns she’d taken as they attempted several grafts to save her life… yet it wasn’t enough. There was nothing they could do. A frown overtakes your expression as a pinch of immense sadness pricks your heart.

“I’ll do it-” you hear a man’s voice from outside the door, “-I’m sure, Alfred.” With three knocks and no response, it creaks open. Unbothered to check who it is, you watch as the rain droplets roll down the leaves on the tree outside your window and slowly drip toward the ground below. He clears his throat and shifts on his feet before speaking. “I really hate to do this to you. I know everyone processes things in their own time, but I’ve got to make arrangements on top of work today and so the best thing I can think to do is get you into a routine.” A look in his direction is all it takes; uniform neatly folded in his extended arms, your Father presents it to you with a sympathetic look on his face.

“What about Melville High?” The question leaves your lips, and all he can think is that you’re too innocent for this world. He doesn't even know you, but already the world has taken too much from you. His daughter. The sentiment still lingers awkwardly between the two of you, both still not used to the idea. After all, you’d both only found out yesterday afternoon. Hell, and that was less than twenty-four hours ago.

“It’s… too far, I’m afraid. Gotham Metro Academy is where Damian goes, and it has a lot of better opportunities from what I know. I’m sure you’ll like it once you get settled in.”

It isn’t the end of the conversation. While you’re barely responding, he imparts as much wisdom and comfort as he’s able, but it goes in one ear and out the other. All too soon you find yourself running your hands over the lapels of your navy uniform’s blazer. A prep school with uniforms was something you’d never imagined in your future—in fact—it’d been far from it! Growing up with enough money to keep you comfortable was fine, but prep school was never in the cards. You and your Mom knew that. Without too much thought to your hair and any accessories or makeup, Alfred is rushing you downstairs and into the awaiting Rolls Royce.

“Had you ever been to Gotham prior, Miss?” Alfred asks from the driver’s seat as you pull away from the infamous Wayne Manor. It looks much more opulent and welcoming in the daylight, yet it still has an intimidating air of aristocracy to you.

“Um… just once, a long time ago.” It hurts your chest to think about; there’d been a weekend you’d gone with your Mom a few years back when she’d wanted to show you all the sights. From the shows to the Financial District, to the historical sights and monuments, it’d been a weekend to remember, truly. If memory serves you right, you even still have a sweater and baseball cap tucked away somewhere from that trip.

Expecting some sort of snarky remark from the child you’ve deduced is Damian, you finally take him in. Sure, everyone’s heard of him. He’s a celebrity for what it’s worth: ‘Bruce Wayne’s Secret Son’ the headlines read. It was national news at the time, his Mom still remaining a mystery. His skin is darker than yours, and while his eyes are a striking green, you can’t deny that he has a resemblance to your Father. Neither can you deny your resemblance, either, really.

“What?” Damian finally bites. His scrutinizing emerald eyes glaring your way. With a quiet, automatic ‘sorry’ and a shift of your eyes out the window and away from the kid on his phone, you can’t help but think about it.

Was Bruce Wayne really as much of a playboy as the media made him out to be? Yours and Damian’s mom would surely proffer the confirmation. Yet, having met the legendary man behind the technological empire, you aren’t sure he really seems the type. As much as your mother tried to keep you from boys and men, you’d met more than your fair share of assholes. Womanizers, scumbags, misogynists; no matter the differences in look or personality, there were always a few similarities they’d have in common, usually in their speech, behavior, or beliefs.

Nevertheless, it’s odd that you’ve been able to place the term ‘Father’ in his grasp so easily. Your mother had feigned a forgetful memory oftentimes when you’d ask during your childhood. Only offering the slightest of details and assuring you that he’d left the both of you as a baby. It was only as you grew up that she eventually let you know that whatever relationship the two of them had, it wasn’t as serious as one would expect of a mother and father. She’d never named him, exactly, having always told you it wasn’t important, or she didn’t remember. He wasn’t worth searching for, seeking out, begging for some answer you surely didn’t want to hear. Why? Why did you leave us? Why don’t you care about us? It was all a waste of time. That much, you knew. Never, even in your dreams would you imagine it’d be the Bruce Wayne.

Before you know it, the trees and streetlights are turning into buildings and stoplights. While you're nervous about going to a new school, it also provides a bit of excitement at the thought of reinventing yourself and making new friends. Surely with the funding from Wayne Enterprises, it'll have more clubs, activities, and maybe more sports, too. You'd always wanted to try out for sports or even be on the varsity squads if possible. Would it be like in the movies? As the car slows along the street, Alfred meets your anxious eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Damian, I expect you'll be there if Miss--" he says your name, "--needs anything. I'm going to park the car and escort you inside, as there happens to be a bit of preliminary paperwork your Father has requested I accompany you to fill out."

Surprisingly, Damian doesn't refute Alfred's sentiment, though as he parks the car, your half-brother hastily exits, headphones still in his ears as he scrolls through his phone. A quiet 'see ya later' is heard from him before the door slams shut. Soon enough you've filled out the registration forms and are given a schedule and tour. Alfred offers you a courteous nod and a lingering hand on your shoulder before he departs for the day. "I'll be here to pick you up when school lets out. You can do this, Miss," he assures with a warm smile. The comforting sentiment only lingers for so long.

It was somewhat embarrassing that you'd had to interrupt class to join in on eleventh-grade, American Literature, yet upon introduction, it doesn't go past your observation that many of the kids start whispering to one another. You’re sure it’s the fact that they’d introduced you as a Wayne. While a few people attempt to talk to you, for the most part, you feel overwhelmed with all the information and the way the lesson quickly continues. Trying to catch up and take everything in, it all feels like too much, and the unintentional tendency to disassociate naturally begins to happen. You zone out for most of the classes, the day passing in a whirlwind with sympathetic smiles from the teachers.

When school lets out, you find Alfred exactly where he'd parked this morning in front of the school. Leant against the car with his hands clasped in front of him, you begin making your way down the steps to meet him. Two boys quickly pass you, both laughing as they playfully smack one another's arms and talk in hushed voices. As you approach the car you realize it's Damian and some boy. He has friends? Who would be friends with him? He seemed so rude earlier, you can't help but think. Maybe he's just upset because you came along.

"Who's this?" The boy in the blue jacket asks as he watches you join Alfred.

"Mister Kent," Alfred greets the boy, "I take it you'll be joining us tonight?" When the boy flashes a smile full of bright white teeth up at him with an eager nod, you take it this is a family friend.

"She's... apparently Dad's daughter," Damian reveals, eyes slicing across the space till the intimidating green orbs land on you. "Don't mind her. I planned a few things we could do when we get to the Manor! I just got Mario Kart Ten and it's supposed to have a bunch of new maps and characters!"

Upon Alfred opening the car door, all three of you slide into the vehicle, the Kent boy separating you and Damian in the backseat. "So... your sister, you mean," He laughs. Despite what he'd said about ignoring you, the boy turns his smile your way with an extension of his hand. "I'm Jon! Damian's best friend. I actually go to West Reeves but I got out early so I could catch a ride to your house. You are..?"

Revealing your name, he repeats it with a fondness as you shake his hand. "I don't know that I'd say best," Damian groans with a roll of his eyes.

"Oh hush! Yes, you would," Jon argues, nudging your half-brother with his body as the two laugh.

"How was your first day, Miss? Did it go alright?" Alfred asks in the rearview mirror before pulling off the school's sidewalk and onto the street.

While this question was unexpected, you can't answer it. Was today good? You're unsure that any sort of sentiment could capture what today was like, truly. With your mother's death, the move, the new school, new people, and the luxury of it all... you feel unable to describe it all in one simple response. It doesn’t feel anything like the life you’ve come to know all these years. Sufficing simply for a nod, you purse your lips before opting for a quiet "Thanks." If nothing else, you can't deny that this old man has been kind to you since the moment you arrived. It seems he cares, but... isn't that also his job? You're not sure how butlers work, exactly, but surely that detail encompasses part of his job description, you think.

With the car parked in the driveway, you all exit the vehicle and head inside. Alfred asks if anyone wants a snack, however, you shake your head and point upstairs, signaling your destination.

You aren't sure what comes over you, a wave of hurt, sadness, angst, pain... there are endless synonyms for whatever it is that washes over you. It winds up there, wallowing in your chest like a weight you hadn't realized was weighing your shoulders down. Maybe it was the attention, the comments, the questions, or the energy it took to put on a 'fine' facade, yet it all finally comes crumbling down. With a click of the lock on your door, you make the final steps toward your unfamiliar bed. Letting the backpack fall from your shoulders haphazardly on the carpeted floors, you flop onto the bed face first, chest hitting the plush comforter before the rest of your body follows, the rebound sending your body bouncing slightly. Face screwing up into one of pain, you do your best to hold it back, and you're not quite sure why. No one's around, no one cares, so why won't you let yourself cry? Would that make it all real? Would that mean you're accepting her death? That she's really gone? That you're letting go? Moving on with your life? Thoughts of guilt consume you as you feel as though you should've known, you should've called her, or said something, maybe asked her to pick you up that day. Anything would've changed the chain in the course of events, right?

It's then, with the realization of a possible butterfly effect that a sob wracks your chest and tears stream down your cheeks. Like rapid fire, the sting of hot, salty tears cascade down your skin leaving streaks of mascara in its wake, you're sure. Screaming into your pillow, you can't help but struggle to breathe as you're not sure what to do. How do you move on from this? Where do you begin? What's left in your life, really? What does anything matter if she's gone? Your mom? The only person who's been there through your whole life from the beginning till, well… now. She was your best friend, your confidant, your partner in crime, your... everything. At the end of every day you always knew you'd have her to go back to. Never has the fear of being alone crossed your mind until right this second. Now you understand why so many people commit suicide each year. If their pain feels anything like this, then you can understand. All you can think, wish, and mentally pray for is this to stop. For the tears to stop falling and your breath to stop coming in quick bursts of panicked, hyperventilating heaves. Snot runs down your lips and it's hard to see with the blurriness of the tears in your eyes.

After a while, the crying eventually dies down and you lie--wishfully--lifeless on your bed. A small hand towel you'd grabbed from the bathroom is folded under your face where the tears would fall and you've folded it over the few times you'd blown your mucousy snot into it. Silence consumes the room, and you've found yourself simply staring up at the ceiling for what feels like hours. Constantly caught in your thoughts, between crying and being eerily silent, you're unsure if all this was destined to happen. Or maybe it was supposed to come out sooner. You’d never dealt with a grief like this. Maybe it's only because you've been pushing everything down into a deep dark place that only feels safe for you to express once you're absolutely sure you're alone. That has to be it.

In the midst of a quiet moment, your eyes and throat sore, head throbbing, there's a knock at the door. "Dinner will be served in just a few minutes." It's Alfred. You hope he hadn't heard your crying, though if he had... what can you really do? Nothing... just like everything else in life. You can't do anything.

A quick splash of cold water on your face, and hands combing your hair down, you make sure you look as presentable as possible. With that, you're ready to confront them again. Aside from the slight red tinge that persists around your eyes and the dark circles beneath them that are impossible to get rid of, you head downstairs. While you're sat in the same spot as this morning, you're joined by many more people this time. Bruce and Damian both sit at the ends of the table again, Tim sits across from you, he's flanked by the Detective, though this time by another man you don't recognize. He has a white stripe in his hair and a longer face than the others, but it suits him with his angular features. On your right sits a very tall and broad man clad in a business suit and glasses. Past him, sits Jon--who you'd met this afternoon--and across from Jon there's one more person who makes the table uneven in terms of people. It's a blonde girl, with an enticing sparkle in her eyes and a charming smile from what you can see from the other side of the table.

"This is my good friend, and Jon's dad, Clark Kent," Bruce introduces, gesturing to the man beside you. Said man holds out his big hand and offers a friendly smile.

"Pleasure to meet you," he recites your name and you reciprocate the handshake. It's good to know that not everyone in Damian's association is a complete asshole, you suppose.

"Nice to meet you too," you respond quietly. With the meal served, everyone dives into eating, leaving you a little unsettled. While your mother had come from a very religious upbringing, she hadn't forced it on you. Yet, you'd still find yourself and your mom praying before dinner to whatever God or higher deity might exist. In a way, it was more to give thanks each day for being alive and having food on the table. Sometimes it was a conversation starter when someone would mention what their day entailed, the good things they'd seen, or maybe the bad things they'd ask for protection from. Nevertheless, it's clear that this family operates differently; digging your fork into the fancy black-peppered pork roast, you use your knife to slice a piece off for yourself. Not in the mood to talk at the moment, you simply listen to what everyone's discussing.

With the lack of response they'd gotten from you, Bruce opts for talking to Clark about business and how things have been. Dick and Tim fill in the mysterious man on the little they knew of you. The blonde girl talks with the younger boys at the end of the table at moments but also butts into the other conversation among the young adults diagonally across the table from you. Stabbing multiple string green beans onto your fork, you don't make eye contact with anyone as you simply try to get through this dinner. Maybe then you can go upstairs and try to relax away from everyone.

"-something we shouldn't really talk about too much, but I can guess the funeral will be by the end of next week with all the arrangements I made today," Bruce speaks to Clark.

"Wait, what?" Your voice is quiet, only drawing the attention of those sitting closest to you. Butting into their conversation, you raise your eyes to meet your Father's surprised blue eyes.

"The funeral will be at the end of next week, I'm presuming. It'll take a little while with all the arrangements," he repeats. Though he seems hesitant, he doesn't keep himself from speaking it again. After all, he's someone who stands behind his actions. “I told you, this morning.”

"What? Why?" Your fork clanks against the chinaware, lips parted in shock as you dropped it. "You made the arrangements without me?"

"Yes. It was important that you go to school and it was all right there in the will." Forkful of mashed potatoes lingering in the air as his blue eyes bore into yours, you find your breath beginning to rise and fall at a faster rate.

Of course, none of them know your buttons and what it looks like once they've been pressed, but if your mother was here right now, she'd know. With a screech of the chair being pushed back hastily and a quiet slap of your palms on the table to stand, you're livid. "Why would you do that? How could you do that?!" Hands shaking, you begin to gesticulate, any former semblance of masked placation now fallen. All eyes are transfixed on your figure. "She's my mother! Mine! You don't even know her- I do! I know what she would've wanted, and this isn't it. Just because your name was on my birth certificate that means you get to take over my life? You, who doesn't even know anything about me, and yet you act like we're best friends?! Your children call you 'Bruce' and you have no problem with it! You don't get to just come into my life and fuck everything up! You sleep with her once, what? Sixteen years ago and now you come in and take over everything?" A wry laugh leaves your lips, "Well, more for you, I guess! Did you ever stop to think that there's a reason I had no idea who you were? Let alone, why she never told me? She never once asked for your money or your help, and now I'm just here. All my stuff? Gone. All my friends and family? Gone, a-"

"-We can go get your-" The Detective begins.

"-Oh, shut up! You really think anyone wants to hear what you have to say? You're adopted, so you're not even related to me! You don't know me. None of you do! The only good thing about this is I don't have to put up with being interrogated by the BPD every goddamn time I walk down the halls of school. But I'd at least take that over never seeing my friends again!"

"-What do you mean?" He follows up, commenting over you. Everyone else looks around the table silently, taken aback by what they're witnessing.

"You want to 'Bring Justice to Bludhaven', I guess, when everyone already knows what happened to Perdy Chapman! Everyone except the BPD, I guess!"

"How dare you?! You can't speak to my brother like that, you-"

"Finally! The only person I'm actually related to here. My half-brother, the mysterious 'Wayne Boy' who doesn't have a mom! You have no fucking empathy for me, you've been giving me shit all day! And yet you're the only person I would've expected to actually give a damn! So sit your ass down, pendejo twerp!"

Without asking for permission you storm out of the dining room and through the living room toward the staircase.

"I'm guessing you're done with your dinner?"

The voice stops you in your tracks, hand on the banister, you let out a loud sigh, shoulders falling before you try to maintain a jovial demeanor when turning to him. "I don't need you to do anything for me, Alfred. I think it's fucking ridiculous to have a servant when it's the twenty-first century for crying out loud!"

"It's my job. I assure you he pays me, if that gives you any consolation," Alfred speaks in a calm tone, unfazed by your words or behavior.

"Great! Well, I still don't need you doing things for me that I can do myself. Thank you, though," while the words come out through tense, grit-together teeth, you turn and head upstairs. It doesn't take long to get to your backpack, slinging it over your shoulders. Luckily, this was the one thing you knew you could do with the advantages of not only your room’s placement but a backyard. Opening the window, you climb out onto the tree branch sidled an arm’s length away.

Soon enough, you're on solid ground, out of the boundaries and gate of Wayne Manor. With a heaving chest and shaky hands, you speedwalk down the road toward where you know the bridge will be heading into Bludhaven from the transfer point on the Eastern Seaboard. This time for whatever reason, you can't bring yourself to cry. Maybe all the tears had already flooded from your body this afternoon, but nothing emanates from your tear ducts. Eyeing the blood that's already starting to dry on your palms from the splinters and the last little drop you'd had to take from the tree, you stare at your scraped palm.

It'd been silent upon your departure from the dining room. Bruce insisted that everyone return to eating, that everything was fine, and that this wasn't unexpected. While things returned normal for the most part, Jason excused himself with a displeased look toward his father. It wasn't until an alarm rang from Bruce's phone that he groaned and pulled it out only to find the surveillance outside capturing your figure leaving the premises. Announcing what the 'emergency' was, at everyone's persistence, Jon ran out of the room before Bruce could elect Clark to go check where you were headed.

It's a lone road, cypress trees lining it along the gravel-filled sides. With the road only being garnered by private property of the elite, and no real intersections for miles, no cars pass in either direction. As the sound of a faraway motorcycle approaches, you don't let it deter you. It'll be at least an hour or more before any of them realize you've left the property. They all think you're just upstairs crying to yourself, most likely. Rage still swirls in your gut, however, it's drained somewhat, being replaced by the determination to get home. A billionaire, his family, servant, and even a few splinters won't stop you. It doesn't strike you as odd that the sound of the nearing motorcycle slows; after all, not many people hitchhike on this road, you're guessing, and with the speed limit being higher in this area, the wind could cause you damage perhaps.

Jon had been faster, intrigued for some reason to find you--his justification upon later questioning--to find out where you were going. Clark trails behind him, neither of them bothering to change clothes as they fly above the closest road, trailing you from a distance silently in the shadows the darkness nightfall provides . It's only when they spot the familiar motorcyclist approaching you that they hold their position.

"Where do you think you're going?" The voice is unfamiliar. While being catcalled isn't a stranger to you, it's still annoying that it'll happen in the middle of fucking nowhere. Ignoring the motorcycle that now stalls to your left, you continue walking with determination, eyes ahead and fists wrapped around each strap of your backpack upon your stiff shoulders. "Really? You're gonna ignore me and play it that way? Get on the motorcycle," the man calls your nickname, which elicits a reaction from you.

Eyes widening and lips parting, your eyebrows shoot upward as you finally look at the man. You don't remember his name, but he'd been sitting at the table across from you between Tim and that Detective. Expression immediately turning into one of anger, your jaw setting, you feel reinspired to make your way to Bludhaven. "I'm not going back! I can't," you argue, "plus I don't even know you. Why would I go with you?!"

A chuckle leaves his lips and you hear the shifting of plastic before the motorcycle revs in a way that elicits an automatic jump from your body. The motorcycle speeds a few feet down the road before it does a loop and skirting and drifts into a stopped position just a few feet in front of you. Legs on either side of the vehicle, the man flicks the visor of his helmet back up and reaches into the back compartment, producing another. Before you have time to react, he throws the helmet your way. Hands instinctively reach out to catch it instead of letting yourself get hit with the speed of it. You wince; it pushes the splinters further into your palm. You come to a standstill a few feet away from him as you lift the helmet slowly, inspecting it only to see the blood starting to pool around your palms again.

"I'm Jason," he reveals, "I don't know where you plan to go running away like this, but you don't think the old man will notice you're gone sooner than later? What's your plan then?"

Irritation and a desperate anger linger in your chest as your eyes finally raise to meet his. "Well, Jason, it's none of your business! Regardless, it doesn't matter. You can't stop me." Approaching him, you're about to shove the helmet in his hands when he raises a hand of his own, palm out facing you in an effective halt.

"Truce? Look, I know you don't know me, but I was like you. I grew up in Crime Alley and had to steal tires for a living. I tried to steal the-" he stops himself, another chuckle escaping his lips, "the old man's, and that's how we met. I get it... it's not easy, and, no one expects you to just go along with everything, alright? If you're thinking about going home, well, that'll take what-? Hours on foot? You really want to walk hours to... where are you from, again? Bludhaven, right? What part?"

"Canaveron District, yeah," you respond gruffly, some of the tension leaving your shoulders. His points are all ones of useful consideration.

"You won't get there for another three hours walking, at best. If you just want to get your things, well, I can take you there. But we'd have to get everyone else-"

"No! no, I don't want-"

"-If you let me finish," he warns, "I was going to say get the others to help tomorrow or this weekend, to get the rest. Alright? Just essentials tonight, and I bring you right back here. Got it?" His eyes search yours for a moment before he adds, "That's the best I can do for you, kid. Otherwise, I've gotta drag you back to the Manor kicking and screaming, which I really don't want to do."

"He sent you?" You weren't too surprised, only that if anyone was coming, you figured it would've been Bruce, himself. It's only when Jason notices you looking around and contemplating your decision that he cocks his head toward the Manor, signaling the Kents to leave. He's got this.

"No. I came, because... unlike those other dicks, I actually know what it's like to come from, well, somewhere that's not the greatest," he admits, a look of sympathy and understanding in his eyes.

"And this isn't some scam? You just tell me this, get me on the bike, and then take me back to the White House?" This elicits a laugh from the man, and he runs a gloved hand through his black and white hair.

"Look, I don't know how much they've mentioned about me, but... let's just say I'm not exactly in Bruce's good favor if you know what I mean." Reading the look on your face, he expands. "I'm not exactly the goody-two-shoes of the family. If you want your stuff, I'll take you, but only because I know he wouldn't do that."

"Why?" Standing in silence, the two of you search one another's eyes for any sense of understanding. It's tacit, the question that you both know you were really asking, yet he doesn't make you voice it: why would you do this for me?

"Because I know what it's like to have everything taken from you." A sigh leaves his lips, and you can tell simply from his stance and demeanor that this man has been through much more than he's letting on. "If you wanna do this, we should get going. I can't be out too late tonight. You coming? Or should I call the old man and let him know what your plan is and where you are?" With a raised brow and eyes flicking toward the helmet in your hands and back to your eyes, he awaits an answer.

"I'm coming." Sliding the helmet over your head, you approach the vehicle. "Just... don't tell him, please! At least don't tell him for another... fifteen minutes?" The request elicits a questioning look before a smirk replaces it.

"Deal. Hang on," he requests. Shifting the bike to stand upright, he leans closer and reaches under your chin to clip a strap in place you hadn't noticed. He tightens it, checking in with you, and then gets onto the bike. "You ever ridden a motorcycle?"

With a thick swallow, your eyes shift from his to the bike. Sliding over the seat, you're unsure where to place your feet, but Jason instructs you, making sure you're comfortable before you slide your arms around his waist and brace for takeoff. Visor flicked down and everything in place, he revs the motorcycle before speeding down the road.

Beneath the helmet, the ends of your hair tickle your arm as it whips through the air. Cool breeze wooshes past your body, arms able to feel the chill through the blazer of your new uniform, your legs gaining goosebumps through the exhilarating experience. Cypress trees turn into willows, which become more and more sparse as gates and brick walls slowly fade with the elitist properties into cemeteries and then into more forest before turning more industrial. As different plants and factories appear, so do the cars. Jason weaves in and out of traffic as he maneuvers his way down the highway and onto the bridge that winds around Gotham and finally goes into Bludhaven. The lights and sights passing this fast is intimidating at the thought of crashing, however, it's thrilling in a way you've also never experienced. Skyscrapers line the island, lights, signs, and monuments only add a sort of fascination and exuberant liveliness to it. As the Wayne Enterprises sign passes, you finally feel comfortable enough to remove one hand from Jason's side for a moment, long enough to flash a quick middle finger at the sign before fearfully grabbing onto his jacket again.

With a laugh and shake of his head, he removes a hand from the handlebar to flip the bird alongside you, eliciting what he thinks is a laugh. Nevertheless, he can feel the fear in your grip so he returns his hand to the handlebars and makes sure to keep his focus on the road. It's not likely they'd crash, not unless someone was out for him and knows his bike, not to mention his civilian identity. Not that he goes too far out of his way to hide it, but it's not impossible. He's confident in his abilities, but considering you don't know each other that well, he doesn't do anything to further scare you.

As he draws nearer to the Canaveron District, he slows down enough for you to give him directions. Parking the bike outside the apartment complex you’ve identified, Jason helps you off the bike and stashes the helmets in the back. "Lead the way, little lady," he encourages.

~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

hog taglist: @luvly-writer , @clairese1980

[pastaxandria]

I'm Sending A Raven: Chapter 5/5 🌧️

The Library of Pastaxandria has recorded for its shelves: Chapter 4 of I'm Sending A Raven.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Matt knew what you were. He’d seen you for the rabid monster, the hound, the worthless subject that you were. That was why you were alone, why he hated you, why they all hated you, why they’d all sentenced you to die here—Ciro and Matt and Frank and Karen and Thompson, all of them capable of freeing you only to leave you to rot, a loathed, forgotten thing lost in the dark and gathering dust. They’d all seen. This was what you were. What you’d always been. What you always would be. Fine. If they thought you a monster… you’d be one.

Wordcount: 12.5k

Warnings for this chapter: suicidal ideation, dehumanization, disassociation, emaciation due to captivity, hallucinations, blood, canon-typical gore and violence, murder of bad people, guns, knives, references to torture, references to brainwashing, references to human experimentation

Read me on AO3 where I'm about to crush your heart but I'll give it a small bandaid when I'm done

Sad Matt gif cause we're gonna go through some shit

[theprissythumbelina]

Songs and Ships Tag

Rules: write about two to five songs from them that represent your a ship between your ocs (it can be platonic or romantic or a secret third thing). then add a quote from said wip (if possible!) underneath it.

I was tagged by @pheita, thank you! Now, my first instinct was Nicolette and Alyss, but I don't have their romantic relationship well felt-out, so instead I am going to do Nicolette and Daisy. In the interest of a little backstory, Daisy was Nicolette's first friend and first love. She was there for Nicolette all through their school years, she was there when her mother died, but they broke up when Nicolette became obsessed with getting her mother back.

So, songs!

Chocolate - The 1975

Now run, run away from the boys in blue Oh, my car smells like chocolate Hey now, I think about what to do I think about what to say I think about how to think Pause it, play it, pause it, play it, pause it Oh, we go where nobody know With guns hidden under our petticoat No, we're never gonna quit it No, we're never gonna quit it, no Yeah, we're dressed in black from head to toe We got guns hidden under our petticoat No, we're never gonna quit it No, we're never gonna quit it, no

Just a Dream - Nelly

I'm going through it every time that I'm alone And now I'm missing, wishing she'd pick up the phone But she made the decision that she wanted to move on 'Cause I was wrong I was thinking 'bout her, thinking 'bout me Thinking 'bout us, what we gon' be Open my eyes yeah, it was only just a dream So I travelled back down that road Will she come back? No one knows I realize, yeah, it was only just a dream If you ever loved somebody put your hands up If you ever loved somebody put your hands up And now they're gone and you're wishing you could give them everything

Gravity - Against the Current

You left me out there with no one but myself In an open field for lightning to strike me down I was the moon, you were the sun I can't seem to shine now that you're gone You ran out of orbit cause you left with no word Are you somewhere better now? Can you save me now? I get lost up in the clouds Can you save me now? You were my gravity Can you save me now? When the ground drops out I get lost in the clouds Save me now? You were my gravity Now my world is shattering

Now for a snippet

Daisy set Nicolette up at her small table with coffee in her hands. Nicolette couldn't tear her eyes from what remained of her mother. Her hands had always been firm, tough, cracked but loving. Those hands now clenched at empty air, ashen. She had always had such nice eyes, eyes that Nicolette hadn't inherited. Eyes that flicked back and forth in an empty gaze. Nicolette considered that she should have felt horrified. That was the correct reaction. Facing the corpse of the one person that had ever loved her should have been horrifying.  Nicolette didn't feel a thing. She just watched, unable to look away. Just watched and felt nothing. Daisy reached over and nudged the mug in her hands. When Nicolette didn’t move, she brushed a tangle of hair off her shoulder. Nicolette felt nothing, and it was a relief.  "Why'd you do it," She asked, not for the first time. Nicolette didn't magically have a better answer this time, so she said nothing.  It was done. Did it even really matter? She had done it.

Tagging @autumnalwalker @talesofsorrowandofruin @athenswrites @italiangothicwriteblr @words-after-midnight

[lususnatura]

🎤

a song that i associate with my muse meme!

OH hey! thank you so much for the ask, venus!! so for this one... i unfortunately have another sad song but (,: i swear to god, if you've never heard this song before, it may just change your lifeee. okay — maybe it wouldn't do something that extreme, BUT it is still such a good song, IMO (an explanation will be in tags):

radiohead - how to disappear completely.

[apalestar]

These are all NSFW headcanons so they are going to live under the cut.

He prefers not to have penetrative sex. It goes back to him wanting to feel safe. He can escape if he needs to. Penetrative sex makes that more difficult to do.

If he trusts someone and they can make him feel safe, he will engage in it. He just has to be worked up to it.

His favorite type of sex is grinding against his partner until both he and them are satisfied.

He likes his ears being bitten at the tips.

He loves when a partner plays hard to get. Pretending to ignore his attentions.

Post Cazador's death he absolutely wants consent explicitly spoken between both parties.

A partner has to take it slow with him and not immediately go to trapping him in. He is far more likely to disassociate that way.

He absolutely cuddles afterwards. He will attempt to frame it as exhaustion.

He's versatile, but has a dom leaning. Again it's a safety & control thing.

[mad-hunts]

"just want to feel something."

Harvey Dent is not in his right mind. When is he? This little dissociative episode just happens to follow a minor patch-up job - done while awake, of course, his gun on Barton the whole time.

No funny business.

Now things are ... slightly less sensible. Maybe because it doesn't hurt anymore, and he can't feel much else.

For a moment, the look is meaningful, heady, tired.

Then he proceeds to poke and prod the wound dressing.

@twcfaces

there was a gentle humming in the room as barton tossed the needle he'd used on harvey today in a sharps container. which, of course, had been necessary to close his wound with stitches. however... thankfully, it was just deep enough to still require them, meaning it was rather minor. though almost as soon as he'd started humming, the happy-go-lucky tune that came from barton quickly stopped. the words that came out of his mouth had admittedly shocked him a bit; the doctor turning around to glance at harvey for a moment. in all honesty, barton found himself seldom relating to anyone, but feeling like you aren't even really here — he could understand that, albeit in his own way.

barton pursed his lips as his eyes darted from a half-scarred face, down to harvey's shoes. he looked tired. an expression exuding empathy (though mostly cognitive) crossed barton's face before he grabbed something: a package full of frozen peas from the fridge within his workshop. and perhaps a bit unexpectedly, barton was now putting the object in harvey's hand. ❝ hey. how does this feel? describe it for me, please. ❞ his voice was soft as he spoke. causing someone to feel an unavoidable sensation should bring them back to the present moment, barton thought. which the other might've needed.

[bornbreathless-archive]

@wirwolff from x

jack can see that there has been so much ANGER && PAIN , behind her eyes holds her truth , a feeling of weight that he cannot && perhaps will not , ever understand . he wants to , he wants to be the one that char trusts && that she needs && that she opens up to , but he supposes , perhaps it must work both ways . he let his expression fall slightly as his eyes set on her , having just come from the kitchen were a DELIGHTFUL plethora of smells was escaping . jack paused slightly before then reaching over towards her elbow && guiding her in . ❝ come , ❞ he said softly , leading her into the house , closing the door behind them , jack softly wrapped his arms around her , pulling her close to his torso in hopes that his heat would soothe slightly .

hands running through her hair , jack pressed a kiss against her temple . ❝ whatever has HAPPENED , you are safe here , ❞ he said softly.

She'd debated over it the whole way here. Jack doesn't need to know about this. Doesn't need to know about the days where she can't feel anything, where she may as well be a ghost drifting through the world, intangible and immaterial. She'd tried to avoid it, too, tried to pull herself out of it, but it had been no use. She'd run until her feet bled, plunged into the icy cold of the ocean, dived into the throng of bodies and noise in all the seediest and most energetic clubs and still...nothing. Mind wandering so far from her body that she'd lost hours staring into space as the world moved around her.

But he deserves to know - and that's why she finally, finally, ends up at his door, and if she looks a little worse for wear it's because she doesn't have the energy to do anything about it. It's easy to guide her through the door, no resistance as she's pulled close and Char closes her eyes, burrows her face tightly into Jack's shoulder so she can breathe him in. The first breath she's taken all day, she thinks, though it does nothing to ground her. "'m sorry."

[vodika-vibes]

What if Strife is Dusk's roommate? Cause like they probably don’t have enough rooms for all Corries. What would be the funniest thing Strife would witness and what would be the worst?

Also, hello there. Hope you are doing well✨🧡

I'm doing well today! Or I was until I forgot lunch, so now I'm sick. Meh, it's my own fault. And I forgot to buy ice cream at the grocery store! It's a sad day.

Dusk and Stife being roommates would be amazing. Dusk needs a babysitter most of the time anyway, and he would appreciate having someone to chat with.

The funniest thing would probably be sitting up with Dusk until 3 am because he's so tired that he's no longer able to sleep, and he's using charcoal to sketch tattoo ideas on the walls. The funny part is when Fox catches him 3 hours later and starts screaming at him while petting his head.

The worst would probably be on one of Dusk's bad shifts. When he's worked 16 hours with a Senator who doesn't believe he's a person, let alone human. When he returns to his shared room and he's trembling and looking through Strife as though he's not there, when Strife has to convince him to release his hold on his bucket because it's the only damned thing standing between Dusk and the people who wouldn't care if he was shot right in front of them. The worst would be the nights when Dusk is untethered (not disassociating, never disassociating) and he has to go and find whichever person is Dusk's person for that day.

Sorry this took so long. I had to go and pretend to be a responsible adult.

[catmillers]

so far away – self-para – cat&eugene

tw: gore, disassociation/ptsd, death, drugs

"Dad?"

She had been in Eugene's arms seconds earlier and then there was a loud shot but she hadn't been hit. Cat couldn't hear anything; all she knew is there was blood – rushing in her ears, on her hands, coating her face. Her eyes flicked down to Eugene on the ground in a clump, more of that red seemed to ooze out from around him.

"Daddy?"

And then there were Peacekeepers on each of her arms, pulling her toward the stage and away from Eugene. Cat couldn't hear anything as she was dragged away from Eugene, but she knew she was screaming, thrashing, tearing her throat raw as she fought to get back to the only family she had left on this Earth. Twenty was too young to be alone, she hadn't learned everything from him yet.

"Eugene get up," She pleaded, only recognizing the fact she was crying from the salt taste that hit her mouth. She only called him Eugene when she couldn't get his attention, "Eugene fuckin' get up."

But he didn't move – Eugene was still. The hole the Peacekeepers had put in his head assured that Eugene Williams would never move again.

Cat couldn't breathe, she had turned Twenty only a handful of weeks ago – how was she supposed to do this alone? She couldn't survive the Games if no one at home and –

"What are you doin', kiddo?"

Cat whipped her head up, feeling caught she immediately defended herself, "Nothin', swear." Her hands shrank away from the duffle bag that sat next to her on the bed.

"Oh, yeah," Eugene drawled out coming to sit next to the teenager. He gestured to the bag that she had been packing mere moments earlier, and set it on his lap, "Big ol' queen a' nothin'?"

"I –"

"Why are you runnin'?" He cut her off.

Cat swallowed, wracking her brain to answer her guardian. "I don't wanna go to the Reaping again – what if they pick me?"

"They ain't gonna pick you," Eugene assured, handing it back to the teenager, "This your second one?"

Cat nodded taking the bag back and tucking it under her arms. "How do you know?" She asked looking anywhere but

"Just know," Eugene said with certainty, ruffling at the kid's hair, "Even if y'ain't gettin' Reaped you still gotta go, they'll be worlds angrier if you're not there, kiddo."

"You're gonna be there?" Cat asked softly, "Right?"

He laughed and nodded at how sheepish Cat was and promised, putting a hand over his heart, "'Course, Cat." He gave a sideways smile and patted her on the back, "We'll go together." Eugene creaked onto his feet and held a hand toward Cat. "You comin'?"

Cat hesitated, unsure if she could trust him on this, and she –

– placed the tab under her tongue with her eyes closed. She didn't know a soul at this party, and she didn't know what she was taking but that didn't matter. What mattered was she had just won the 127th Hunger Games so everyone knew her. And what did she have to show for it? Free drugs, the two small lightning-like burns that ran from her temples and branched out onto her cheeks? She guessed they just marked that she had lived; the electrodes from the virtual reality simulation had zapped at her skin – a part of her wondered how fried her brain was or if it was just how the Game itself had altered her brain chemistry. At this point maybe it was the drugs, too.

The tab finished dissolving and she sighed as her bones began to feel like liquid and she sank into a nearby couch. She watched as the world around her began to haze over, and the dark room of the party began to almost shimmer. A stupid laugh fell from the back of her throat as she felt it all kick in and she scanned the rather packed party. She'd won, she'd won, which made her a prize, made her something people wanted to win. She'd spent the better part of her evening playing dumb and demure to advances made upon her.

Maybe she was a prize, prizes didn't have to think for themselves or feel too much of anything other than good. A wandering hand on her shoulder caught her attention. She caught sight of the person who she decided had just won her for the evening, another Victor from a Game she couldn't remember. The identity didn't matter, what mattered was feeling anything other than alone. Can't think about Eugene if – 

"You got six more years if we're countin' this one."

Cat groaned, the heels of her palms digging into her eyes as they walked toward the Reaping for the sixteenth time together, "Doesn't make it less bullshit."

"Bullshit or not, we're just gettin' it over with," Eugene reminded, taking a turn into the main square of the town, "Odds a' you gettin' picked is low. Jus' keep your head down, kiddo."

"Keep my head down anymore I'm gonna disappear," Cat said, trying to joke her way around the very real fear coiling in her gut.

Eugene huffed out a laugh as they joined the crowd, "You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"Maybe," Cat shrugged. She was breathing a little easier – Eugene was right, this was just a biannual nuisance and Cat would never be picked. Odds were too low, "I'll see you after, okay, old man?"

"You know it."

They separated and the whole pageant that was the Reaping began. Some overdone speech about the importance of the Games and then the escort's hand went into the bowl. She pulled out a thin paper slip and read the name off:

"Catarina Miller."

Cat's brain didn't know how to reconcile hearing her name. She was only ever Catarina when she was in trouble and she knew she was certainly in trouble. Her legs moved clumsily as she wove through the crowd, trying to locate Eugene, trying to run to safety. Then a pair of arms were around her and she began to struggle as her ears tuned in –

"It's me, it's me," Eugene said, trying to soothe the panicked girl.

Cat looked up at him helplessly and shook her head, "I can't, I can't do it, I can't."

Then there was a struggle. Peacekeepers descended on the pair and began to pull them apart. Cat's fingers dug into the fabric of Eugene's coat, desperate to stay. Eugene was stronger, though, and clung to Cat desperately as he pleaded, "Pick someone else, not her, not my girl."

Then there was a gunshot and Cat's ears rang. "Dad?" She croaked out looking down at her blood-stained hands and –

Cat sat up stock straight in her bed, a sound halfway between a scream and sob echoed around the room. Her breath caught in her chest, only being able to move in and out in stuttered gasps. The air felt heavy as she looked around, her eyes were wild as she attempted to locate where she was.

A shaky hand pressed to Cat's chest, right over her heart as she attempted to soothe the palpitations. She couldn't right her breathing, but she knew where she was – she was in the Tower. In her bedroom. Safe. Cat was safe – no one could get her in there. But that still meant Eugene was gone.

She closed her eyes for a second, her brain greeting her with visions of blood and brains, and – Cat's eyes snapped back open and she propelled herself out of bed. Even with her eyes open she still felt like she was back in Six, watching her father die. The air smelled too much like ozone and her hand shook as she fumbled with her bedside table. Eventually, her hands took hold of a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. She shoved them into her pajama pants and beelined for the elevator. It wasn't a surefire way to snap herself out of it but it was the only solution her trauma-addled brain could offer. It was worth a shot, even if it reminded her she was alone.

[existennialmemes]

Please do not disturb me while I'm sitting motionlessly, staring vacantly through the walls of this dimension. I am taking a "staycation."

[apalestar]

[GROUND]: during a moment of intense emotional stress, the sender gently takes the receiver's face in their hands to ground them until they're calmer again.

@chosenbythecrystal from Reasons to Cup a Face // no longer accepting

The dank, dark of the kennels where blood and despair clung to them like an old friend. Time was but a construct here where they lamented and wained under the watchful gaze of their jailor. He was recently returned after a brief leave to the boudoir to entertain a lascivious duchess. Under Cazador’s orders no less. He begged to no avail that without a proper meal he’d not be the lay she desired.

When his failure to perform to her satisfaction assuredly came, Astarion was tossed unceremoniously back with his brother. Godey returned with two putrid rats. One for each. But the elder’s coated in garlic powder and spice so when he drank— Rashes and burns lined his lips. Broke out in this throat. The blood so sorely needed turned to vicious poison.

Starved and injured he retreated far, far away. To a mental plane where the hurt wasn’t real. Where Astarion didn’t have to exist.

When their next meal came, panic gripped him anew. Were these too poisoned against him? His iris emitted a soft, red glow from the bloodlust. He dared not move. He dared not budge to inflict more pain upon himself. He’d rather starve. He must have begun to retreat once more for chilled hangs rested on his cheeks. Eyes just as hungry as his reflected back.

Try as Noctis might to reach him. To make him see reason, Astarion’s mind still fled leaving behind his husk of a shell.

[jellyskink]

OMG MORE EARLY OWNERSHIP FORD I JUST SAW THE LAST COMIC OF IT I NEED MOREEEE (only if u want to ofc)

His brain and body weren't always in accord with each other back then

[sm-baby]

what abt. a brain static tbh creature

where is he..............................................................someone find him

[parasolladyansy]

How does N feel in this Survival AU? Does he realize the magnitude of which he is a puppet? Does he regret his role in all this? Does he hear the voices of the Pokémon separated from those they love and wonder if this is really what’s best?

EDIT: decided to add some screenshots from “The Plan” & a couple drawings to break up the wall of text lol

—

🚩 TW trauma, emotional / mental abuse, disassociation

N is in a truly terrible position on this timeline. If I can be very personal for a moment, he’s very much like who I imagine I would’ve been if I didn’t escape the toxic environment I was in (very, very short version: why I have C-PTSD).

In the Pokémon Evolutions animation, “The Plan” (VERY highly recommended), Ghetsis saw him as a blank slate to write the story of the Ideal Hero & King, an extension of himself who can be chosen by the Black Dragon (having enough self-awareness to know he wouldn’t be chosen).

We see evidence all through the original games that Ghetsis really infantilized & sheltered N. N’s room is full of very bright colors & more toys than one child could ever play with, & the only Pokémon Ghetsis allowed him to befriend were ones abused by humans.

This all made him very intelligent but emotionally / socially stunted, with a very carefully tailored view of the world - someone perfect to manipulate.

Ghetsis then goes on to appeal to the masses, appearing in places like Accumula Town, campaigning with impassioned words about liberating Pokémon, the same ones N grew up with. Some agreed with him, siding with Team Plasma & their message. Some, like us, didn’t.

That’s who N is when we first meet him.

Through BW, he starts to change - he, like me, saw things in the real world that contradicted what he was groomed to believe. He met humans & Pokémon who loved & supported each other, battled & grew together, & made the world around them better. Then, at the end, when we beat him, it finally sinks in that the version of the world Ghetsis showed him was a lie.

That’s why Ghetsis drops his act when N fails, revealing what he really thought of him: warped, defective, & inhuman. He, like most narcissists, demanded perfection & unquestioning loyalty, & the N who lost can give him neither of those things. There was no reason to continue the charade that N was a King, & that this fairy tale of white knights was just a way for him to take over Unova.

In Survival AU, that’s not what happened.

Instead, he praises N for defeating the “false” Hero & found him worthy of sharing his name (aka worthy of being an extension of himself).

Over the years, N had what little sense of self he was allowed erased away, replaced by the King Ghetsis wanted him to be. He might’ve even repressed the memories & emotions that might contradict this image he felt he had to maintain. I can also see him losing the ability of hearing Pokémon’s voices, because he can no longer hear the Truth…

Even then, I think he’d have locked the part of him that knows this isn’t right deep down, somewhere Ghetsis can’t reach. This part shows itself as a misery & frustration under the surface that doesn’t really let him be happy or satisfied with this world he (thinks) he created where Pokémon are free.

I’ve been thinking about Zekrom through all this, how they (like Reshiram) would love N like a child, protect him ferociously like a parent, & if they saw him stray, destroy the region in endless lightning like they did in the past. That’s why I’ve been thinking that maybe Zekrom was forced together with Kyurem, which that part of him deep down would object to but on the surface level, Ghetsis convinced him that this is how it should be.

So he sits there on his cold throne as the perfect King of Ideals.

—

Basically, N is miserable - on the surface level, he shut down his thoughts, memories, & feelings, genuinely believing & following everything Ghetsis says. Somewhere, deep down, he knows this isn’t right, & hopes that, in spite of everything…Reshiram’s Hero is alive somewhere, & can maybe help save him.

I‘d say that when he does receive word that Ansy is actually alive, that’s when that hope becomes stronger, & he starts to question again. From there would be the very difficult & agonizing process of detaching himself from Ghetsis…

But I think he can do it. 🌱

[vodika-vibes]

About Dusk: Bad Days

The hard truth of the matter is that the Clones aren't seen as people by the majority of the galaxy. For every person to treats them as a person, there's another three who don't. And while Fox does his best to shield his men from this, he can't be everywhere.

And none of the vod'e want Fox to have to deal with that alone. So they made a rotating schedule, just to make sure that their ori'vod got a break, and to make sure that the Shinies didn't have to deal with it before they were ready.

Some bad days were less bad than others. Those good-bad days could be dealt with with spending time with their brothers, and maybe going out to the bar at the end of their shift.

The bad-bad days are where the problem lies.

Dusk has a tendency to shut down after bad-bad days. His vod'e learned quickly that the best way to get him present again is to give him to Fox, or Thorn, and let them handle it.

Generally, after a bad-bad day, Dusk will come back to himself while curled up next to whichever big brother was given Dusk duty that day.

[sanctamater]

They say that Andraste could know a man’s heart in its entirety by looking upon his face. They Say she could sing and every sin, every stain upon the soul would wither in her presence. They say to follow in Her footsteps; to walk that penitent’s path will bestow Her gifts upon to you. The good lady does not know what she believes these days — all she does know are plain facts. This city is the pyre, and they have already been set to the torch.  All she knows are simple things. Humanity is as duplicitous as ever; and even divine light casts long, dark shadows. She would know, after all — she is standing in it. So is he. “ Ah, you are philanthropist — like so many of us. ” As if she had not turned her back on them ( her country, her people ) as soon as she’d seen how all that gold had glimmered. It was for my survival. It was for Elizabeth, too. The good lady tells herself this over and over; enough so that it becomes truth. She’d done this before, hadn’t she? Not so very long ago. She would do this over and over again; is, was, would be — it doesn’t end. Her hands may be clean, but Maker; nothing can get the blood off of them; scrubbing at the sink until flesh was red and raw, until her nails bled ( Maker she can still feel his hands upon her and he is always there, always — ) Ah. A breath. Another. Her papers are crushed against shaking fingers, strangled in that grip. Her shoulders rise and fall; body swaying — leaning forwards. “ You must forgive me. I have had… Little rest these past few weeks. ” I remember what I remember. The scent of pine, of coal, of the hearth; of the feeling of frost at her fingertips, the snow capped mountains. The Champion must remember it, too. The forests of their youth are filled with rot and ruin now; blighted and diseased — stained, much like them. And if he is still a man instead of what she knows him to be; sword of justice, hero ( strange word, stranger title ); he could run from it all he liked, it would suffocate him all the same. She had lived it, after all. Was still living it — not some apostle to the Lady of Sorrows, not her heart reborn; they say she can wash any clean of their sins. That she can forgive anyone. The good lady does not know much about that, either. But she does know hate; and Maker, it is burning her alive from the inside out. “ It is the truth. ” The word tastes thick in her mouth, but she means it all the same. Can he feel it? They may have escaped the Blight, but something far more sinister has taken root within what was once a safe harbour. Two players of an entirely different game meet in the market; both on opposing sides, and neither with an olive branch in hand. Not a war, but a warning — No, worse than. I do not wish to see what will happen here, but it will happen all the same. If she can cover her eyes as much as she covers her heart, the good lady may yet rise above the fury she feels simmering in her chest. “ You did well… As you have always done. A certain tact that only a consummate purveyor of only the finest drinks the Hanged Man has to offer might possess. ” 

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐃 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇, and he can all but hear: let the harsh light harm you. let the harsh wind draw you away. below the surface of those blue eyes, a frozen lake, he thinks he could dream up dark shadows moving, without a color, without a wave, just the sound of the ocean and the shifting shapes below. kirkwall stands tall in all her splendor, the hem of her dress stained with the muck of her own misdeeds, the high towers shining in the light, did the saints feel the same? when andraste was bound and readied for the pyre did she resent the hands which bound her? the fear and hatred in their eyes? did that serenity come with a cost?

" to be quite honest with you? yes. " she gives his greatest hope for fereldan's in kirkwall shape and name, he calls that hope - faith, and faith it shall be, he thinks, not some lowborn belief but the true meaning of it. " that seems to be my lot in life. " he, like so many hang upon her word as if from a noose. or else a body waiting for the soil, the grave dirt or the pyre. he feels, in the moment some shivering wraith of gentility, despite his own gauntleted hands, despite the pale marks of pressure coloring his palms in shades of pink. he, himself, feels gentle here, with her. she paints him in kinder shades, peach flesh and blush, the colors of a life lived not in the fetid black and twisted crimson of his current title.

as if he hadn't gained his title from blood, of blood, his family's and his own, the arishok looking at him with respect in his eyes, bleeding out at his feet, the roar of the crowd. the jubilation cutting through him as cleanly as a blade. CHAMPION they call him, and what is a champion but a killer? like all boys grown into men is he not but a killer of soft gentle things? is he not a murderer of his own stuttering morality? andraste before him, the lady, and he fights the urge to kiss her unoffered hand with the same dancing laughter he had killed so much else with. as if to say, see? here, i can belong among the towers and hedges, the garden lush with growth and dew. how he could bow here, a man willingly down and feel her stained hem against his knees.

his gauntleted hands, his empty palms, here, i am simply human, just a man. not mythical at all. no champion, just a man in the market. just a woman, drawn and tired, spirts wearied. good lady, there is no going back to the forests of our home, but that does not cut the longing out by it's roots, how he longs to see each of them, resting peacefully in the lacework shade of the leaves. how he longs for home, and how that longing translates into longing for her as well, that she may know what it means to return to a place and a time that has long since passed and find what he cannot. that things have remained unchanged.

an intersection of being, do you feel the flames flare higher? do you feel the crush of pressure pressing down on us both? or, are we as we appear, two people stood in the market?

“ such high praise. i did only what i thought best. ”